


We Had The Chance And Threw It Away

by LFC_FanficWorld



Category: Men’s Football RPF
Genre: wishful thinking because I’m still not over the cl final
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFC_FanficWorld/pseuds/LFC_FanficWorld
Summary: Made this in the hope that one day, the dreams that died on the 26th of May 2018 might come to life again.





	We Had The Chance And Threw It Away

Jordan can feel every pulse of energy from the crowd, and it enthralls him. He never imagined he’d be here, especially not with Liverpool, who after over a decade of European mediocrity suddenly find themselves thrown into a Champions League final. The words sound surreal in Jordan’s head and he breathes a deep, shuddering sigh. 

Across from him, Jordan can see Mo Salah, looking tense and excited. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are bright and ready, darting around restlessly as if surveying the opposition and working out exactly how he is going to light up this stadium. Jordan knows he is capable, that they all are, but as he looks across at the assembled Real Madrid team he knows that this will be the biggest challenge of his life. 

He always looks toward Ronaldo first. He doesn’t have anything against the player but he has a burning desire to beat him, to show that even the world’s greatest player cannot outdo Liverpool. Cristiano Ronaldo has god-like status in the footballing world and obviously uses it to his full advantage. Even in the heat of the stadium, under the blinding glow of the floodlights, Ronaldo looks plastic and perfect. As Jordan looks round at his honest, work-roughened teammates, he wonders how on earth they are going to do this. 

He looks back across and sees Sergio Ramos, tapping his foot and looking around impatiently. Jordan feels irritation creeping into his heart. He might be able to respect Ronaldo for his raw talent but he can’t stand Ramos. He can’t see anything decent or faithful about him. He knows Ramos has an intense passion to win, but Liverpool, amongst other teams, have shown again and again that winning does not need to involve cheating or arguing or any of the other tricks Sergio Ramos employs every game. Jordan’s mind is drawn back to last year’s final, Real Madrid vs Juventus, and how Ramos got Juan Cuadrado sent off after going down from the faintest of touches. Jordan’s heart seethes with adrenaline. He wants to show Sergio Ramos that players aren’t just things in the way of his success. 

James Milner stands on the centre circle, one foot on the ball, waiting to kick off. The whistles echo all around the huge stadium, and underneath Jordan can just make out a ragged, passionate chant from the sea of red - “Liverpool! Liverpool!”

The ref looks at his watch and blows. 

The first thing Jordan notices is that, even though Madrid are the more slick and calm side, Liverpool are not afraid. They’re bold, they’re aggressive, they’re sliding into tackles and winning the ball and kicking Ronaldo and Ramos and Bale and Modric and all the rest of them up in the air. Jordan, as captain, feels so proud he feels as if his heart may burst. He continues checking round at the team in red as he plays; Trent Alexander-Arnold looks all of his nineteen years. Bright, vivacious, ready. Mo, Bobby and Sadio up front look lethal when the chances are handed to them. Jordan can’t stop smiling, and the Liverpool fans are drowning out those in white. This is the way it should be, he thinks. Liverpool, setting Europe on fire. 

They get a major scare about halfway through the first half. Liverpool’s goalkeeper, Loris Karius, makes a great save from Ronaldo’s initial shot before Benzema puts in the rebound, but he’s flagged for offside. Jordan breathes a deep sigh of relief, wiping his forehead. “Come on, we can do this,” he mutters to himself. 

But it’s Ramos. 

It’s always Ramos. From the moment Jordan had become aware of Madrid’s precocious young centre back it’s always been Ramos. As the half begins to dribble away and 0-0 looks all the more favourable, he notices Ramos lurking behind Mo Salah as the ball comes falling down, down, down toward them. Ramos catches hold of Salah’s arm as the ball hits the floor. There’s a tussle for a moment, and then Ramos smashes Salah to the ground. 

Mo stays down. It immediately sets off alarm bells in Jordan’s head because he knows Mo Salah, the man who would give life and limb for the team. Madrid have the ball and Jordan knows he should help to defend, but it hurts seeing his teammate and friend in agony on the grass. He dithers helplessly, and Madrid almost score. The referee stops play and medical swarm around Salah. Jordan watches in anguish as Mo sprawls on the floor, half-conscious and screaming in pain. It hurts Jordan. He feels as if everything is crumbling. 

Mo gets to his feet, unsteady and holding his shoulder, his face screwed up in pain. Jordan wants to believe Mo’s alright, but he looks pale and drawn as he retakes the field of play. Dread settles in Jordan’s heart, and it doesn’t go away. 

So when Mo goes down again, Jordan knows it’s over. He sees Ramos wandering over to the linesman, and sees the pair of them laughing while Mo Salah’s world collapses. Jordan feels a rising flame of anger and swallows it down, turning away. The Liverpool fans burst into song; “Mo Salah, Mo Salah, Egyptian King!” But it’s sung in solidarity, and Jordan realised that they know Mo’s time is up. 

He walks off crying. It breaks Jordan’s heart because he knows that Mo is the essence of the team, Liverpool’s Ronaldo, and now that he’s gone it could have a severe effect on the mindset of the side. 

Come on, he thinks. Hang on. 

Adam Lallana comes on for Mo. He runs gamely and tries very hard. But he is a midfielder and they need someone like Mo to fill the gap in the team. Jordan feels sick and has to force himself to keep running. 

They get in at half time at 0-0. Jordan hopes he’ll see Mo, to offer some words of support, keep alive some dead hope that he might be alright. But they don’t see him and Jürgen Klopp informs them that he’s gone straight to hospital. A dull ache starts up in Jordan’s head, and stays there like a migraine that never quite comes. 

Jordan is an optimist but he has no idea how they are going to get through this. The shouts of the crowd still echo down the tunnel - clearly no one has left their seats to sample some overpriced coffee or buy a sandwich. The audience are hungry for more from their teams, and it plants a seed of doubt in Jordan’s mind. A sad, sour voice whispers at the back of his head, “Can we really do this?”

He pushes it down and retakes his place on the halfway line. Real Madrid are kicking them off this time, and Ramos has his foot on the ball. An echo of withering boos erupts from the Liverpool fans and Jordan smirks, glad that they are making their feelings heard. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling hollow as he looks at the apprehensive looks on his teammates’ faces. 

They manage to cling on until 51 minutes. 

Up until that moment, those first six minutes of the second half had been safe and cautious. But one devastating sequence of play blows everything apart. 

A wayward pass ends up in Karius’ arms with Benzema lurking. Jordan doesn’t see what happens next - he’s already turning back to potentially receive the inevitable goal kick that will follow. He glances toward Virgil Van Dijk, and stares. His teammates’ face is pale, his mouth a little “o” of shock. Jordan hears a deafening roar erupt all around the stadium. He looks back toward Karius, and spots Benzema wheeling away, ready to be swamped by his teammates. 

The ball is in the back of the net. Jordan blinks once, then twice, as the Real Madrid fans celebrate. He crosses over to Virgil, who looks bemused. “What happened?” he yells over the noise of the crowd. 

“The ball came off Benzema’s leg...” Virgil’s voice is dead, like he’s seen a ghost. 

After that, everything slips away. 

They do equalise. Manè. And it hurts Jordan. He doesn’t know why but he’s having visions of them losing, like the result is already confirmed and they’re just condemned to defeat. The fans seem sad too as they cheer, as though they’re thinking, “This team will keep fighting but it won’t be enough.”

And it won’t be. Not tonight. 

And Real Madrid bring on Gareth Bale and he scores. Jordan can do nothing but admire, albeit bitterly, the sheer finesse of such a goal. But it turns out this nightmare isn’t over for Loris Karius. 

When he punches another Bale shot into his own net, Jordan feels his heart shatter into a million pieces. His dream has been thrown about, kicked up in the air, broken and smashed. He can barely breathe. He feels the pain of a million people, and he’s never felt as lonely in his life. 

As the minutes dribble away, culminating into petty dives by the Real Madrid players and a growing sense that Liverpool may never get this chance again, Jordan begins to feel a little dizzy. Not just the kind of shakiness he’s been feeling since this nightmare began, but genuine, sickening nausea. The players around him are in doubles and the sound of the crowd is horrific. He stumbles around, unnoticed tears slipping down his face. He knows his desperation will go unheeded because the cameras are all focussed on the Champions-Of-Europe-to- be. 

When the final whistle goes, his teammates sunk down into their haunches. But all Jordan wants is to get off this pitch. The lights are suddenly too bright and his stomach churns. He grabs his stupid, pointless runners-up medal and runs down the tunnel with a hand held over his mouth. The bathrooms are nowhere to be found in this unfamiliar stadium. 

He throws up, alone in the darkened tunnel. 

All the media have gone outside to film and photograph the team that have destroyed him. 

The nausea doesn’t fade. He is sick again. 

He can feel himself falling away from reality, falling and falling. 

He is certain he’s dying. 

But he can’t, not here, not now. 

He clutches at the fringes of reality, fighting to stay conscious. But he has no control. And so he falls, drifting and floating. His life is slipping away. And he lets it go. 

*****

The lights. The crowd. His teammates. 

Why is he here again?

Jordan rubs his eyes, his heart pounding. He can recall being here before, with Mo Salah, tense and ready, Ronaldo with his chin shining in the glare of the floodlights, Ramos staring round as if the men in red in front of him are just obstacles in the way of him winning this trophy, yet again. Jordan looks round, cold, hard fear settling in his heart. “What the hell is going on?” he whispers to himself. 

The whistle blows, and the game happens again. 

He is helpless, like he’s walking in a dream. The game goes on, and he plays his passes robotically, exactly the same way that he did before. But his head is in turmoil. 

When Ramos and Salah begin to tussle for the ball, Jordan’s breath catches in his throat. He remembers this bit, and he feels sick as he watches. Mo on the floor. Agony rips through his heart. 

Jordan falls to the ground, clutching his chest. It’s as if his heart has burst into flames. He curls up on the pitch, his cheek pressed against the dewy grass, his eyes shut tightly. “Stop,” he whispers. 

The world starts to crumble. Jordan remembers being in the tunnel after throwing up, and shudders. All he wants is to escape. 

Then there’s a voice. 

Mo Salah’s voice. 

“Make the difference.”

Something changes. 

His mind sharpens. 

Suddenly there is no fear at all. 

He stretches his arms out wide, plummeting like a stone. 

The voice echoes round his head again. “Make the difference,” it says, full of conviction. “Make the difference.”

And Jordan knows what he needs to do. 

*****

This time he stands tall, his back straight and his head held high. He meets eyes with Ramos, and spits on the ground. He’s ready this time. 

They start. He’s making the same passes as he did, but with more intent. He’s up for it, endless energy in his veins. He’s ready to throw everything at this. As he runs, he begins to think what to do. He needs to stop that ball from reaching Salah and Ramos. He swallows, and keeps his eye on the Egyptian. 

When Casemiro poised to swing the ball toward where Ramos and Salah are, Jordan slides into a crunching tackle that knocks him off his feet and sends the ball spinning out of play. The whistle sounds and Jordan swallows. “Please don’t be red,” he prays silently as he turns. 

The card is yellow. 

He sighs, a deep sigh of relief. He looks toward Mo, walking over. 

They meet eyes, and Mo smiles. He mouths three stark words. “Make the difference.”

Then he is gone, and Jordan is sinking into nothingness again. 

He tries to shout into the space. “Mo!” he yells, and his voice cracks. “What are you doing?”

Mo answers. “Make the difference, Jordan.”

And then Jordan is back on the pitch. He and Mo are at opposite ends of the pitch. Jordan is where he was when Mo got tackled by Ramos the first time he played this match, seemingly miles away from the pair. And miles away from Casemiro, too. 

He runs toward Salah, not knowing what else to do. The ball swings over as he sprints. He and Mo make eye contact for a second, and then Jordan punches Sergio Ramos straight in the face. 

*****

He’s sent off. Before he leaves the pitch, he stares at Mo imploringly. “Let me start again,” he whispers. 

He falls again. 

As he descends, Jordan wonders if this is even about Mo. He isn’t certain that Mo would do this to stop himself from going off injured - yet all Jordan wants to do is save him from the vicious tackle. But he wonders if he has any control over that. Is this whole thing about saving the team, rather than just one man?

He finds himself in the scene again. There’s Casemiro. And Jordan forces himself to watch, to watch his teammate be thrown to the ground and writhe around in pain. Yet, as he hobbles to his feet, he looks to Jordan and smiles. 

Jordan doesn’t fall, and he knows he’s done the right thing. 

Mo’s voice is in his head now. “Pass to Virgil, Jordan. Keep with Modric, Jordan.” Short, sharp commands, dictating the game. 

When Karius gets ready to roll the ball out with Benzema on his heels, Jordan holds his breath. He thinks of Mo, tries to speak to him, but the voice is silent. 

The ball careers off Benzema’s leg, rolls behind Karius and hits the post, going out of play. 

Jordan can’t believe it. He clutches his face as if he can’t process what has just happened. 

Mo’s voice, direct and calm, enters his head. “Keep your cool, Jordan.”

Jordan nods. He knows that this is their time. They need to seize it, and never let it go. 

So they score. Of course they do. Mo Salah, controlling the game, wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s a simple, beautiful goal. Manè. And Jordan celebrates because he knows that this is their trophy. It’s the 65th minute, they are one-nil up and it is in their hands, it is their time. 

They win. 

They have won the Champions League. 

Jordan can’t believe it. 

They’ve done it with the intervention of a sacrifice. 

That was why the match originally happened the way it did. Mo Salah was a sacrifice, his glory was a sacrifice, and because of that a kind of divinity has taken hold and turned the tide in their favour. 

Jordan touches the metal of the trophy and shivers in exhilaration. This is what this nightmare was leading up to; the reclamation of a city and its football club. So he lifts the trophy, the masses of red seething with joy. 

And Jordan smiles, and he thinks of Mo. 

*****

Some days later, they are back. Jordan is doing an interview for LFCTV. Mo is there with him, shoulder in a cast, smiling bemusedly at all the cameras. One of the press members addresses Jordan. “Concerning Sergio Ramos,” she says awkwardly, “do you believe he committed a red card offence?”

“No.” Mo’s voice in his head. “ Jordan’s eyes dart toward his teammate, who looks down with a wry smile. 

“No,” Jordan repeats out loud. “By the end of it, it still felt like Mo was on the pitch.”

They share a look, and Jordan nods. Mo’s voice is silent in his head, except for a small laugh. Jordan stretches his legs out under the table, ready to take on the onslaught of questions. 

He has fulfilled his dream. 

Maybe not in the most orthodox of ways. 

But Liverpool did it. He did it. 

He has done this a lot. But for the millionth time in just a few days, Jordan Henderson smiles.


End file.
